


The Last Unicorn

by iam (Otherwise_Uncolonized)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst and Porn, Anorexia, Attraction, Catharsis, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Cliffhangers, Complete, Corruption, Daddy Issues, Debauchery, Delusions, Depression, Diary/Journal, Disturbing Fluff, Disturbing Themes, Emotional Roller Coaster, Emotionally Repressed, F/M, Fantasizing, Female-Centric, Freewriting, Horny Teenagers, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, If you only read one work by me, Immaturity, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inspired by Music, Intense, Internal Conflict, Introspection, Isolation, Lack of Communication, Loneliness, Loss of Innocence, Lust at First Sight, Married Characters, Masturbation, Mental Anguish, Mental Disintegration, Mental Health Issues, Misguided Teen, Mistakes, Misunderstandings, Molestation, Not Beta Read, Not a Love Story, Older Man/Younger Woman, Open to Interpretation, Original Fiction, POV Female Character, Poor Life Choices, Porn with Feelings, Psychological Trauma, Puberty, Quote: Conceal Don't Feel, Reader-Insert, Regret, Sad Ending, Self-Denial, Self-Destruction, Self-Worth Issues, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Repression, Shame, Shameless Smut, Social Anxiety, Stream of Consciousness, Suicidal Thoughts, Suspense, Taboo, Teen Angst, Teenage Parents, Temptation, Touch-Starved, Trust Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, Unsettling, Violation, Virginity, Voyeurism, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2018-12-20 20:13:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11928393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otherwise_Uncolonized/pseuds/iam
Summary: ♥"I decided to write this before I killed myself."





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["I can't recall the last time I took love from anyone.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RXDOcZLmrKU)  
>  [I called Daddy, (but) who's got one anyway?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RXDOcZLmrKU)  
>  [Not me."  
>  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RXDOcZLmrKU)

 

* * *

[Babylon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g99qysQgo58) [by SZA](LYRICS%20URL) 3:42

[Code by Layouttesst](http://layouttesst.livejournal.com/profile)

* * *

Dear Self,

When your new neighbor watches you, you feel good about yourself. You feel sexy. You feel beautiful. You feel like you matter. He’s in his early forties, but to you, he looks like a younger [Tim Daly](http://static.tvgcdn.net/mediabin/galleries/shows/m_r/pq_pz/private_practice/season2/private-practice129.jpg). 

This younger Tim Daly has a wife and two boys he doesn't want. You know all of that because you hear him arguing with her about them every day. His wife doesn't want them, either. She says she doesn't Monday-Thursday. Your houses share a driveway, so they're close enough to hear when their windows are open.

This younger Tim Daly smokes on his balcony four days out of the week to escape his shitty marriage. On Saturdays, he's out there all night. The first time you saw him, you were undressing in your bedroom, which sits right under his balcony. He could see you peeling off your hoodie from your window, could see your stretch-marked boobies spilling out. You could see his feet, legs, and body slouched over the handrail as his cigarette glowed like a firefly in the dark.

You went pale that first time, and then clapped your hands over your nipples. You closed the blinds that first time, shuttering his face. You cut out the light that first time, erasing the event. The thought of someone actually _seeing_ you horrified you that first time, because you have worked very hard to be invisible. You have stuffed your bras with Kleenex and Bounty whenever you lost your tits from self-starvation in order to distract people from seeing your ribs.

Invisible wasn't what you told your teachers you wanted to be when you grew up; you used to be a real kid star in your household before you realized being happy all the time wasn't enough to keep your parents happy all the time. The story goes that they were too young and _too religious_ to have you. Mom was eighteen when she dropped you off at Grandpa's and Grandma's house for six years to live with her new boyfriend in Hidden Hills; Dad was twenty-eight when he dropped out of your life forever to play daddy to his other eight kids. He didn't want to fuck up with them too, he said, so you guess he just wanted to fuck you up. That's cool; if being _his little mistake_ makes him feel better, then that's okay. 

You have liked being invisible ever since you realized how much pain you could avoid by not letting people see who you are. You have enjoyed living in your bedroom ever since Mom came back to squeeze you into her whole new life with her whole new  ~~child~~  man. You have never allowed Dad or Mom to move back into your heart even though they want all of you now, not just pieces of you on the weekends. According to you, it's too late to patch you up. They lost their chance after you stopped playing with Playdough.

You have since told yourself that you would rather live inside your head than live inside the world. You said that you wished you'd been born a spirit with no body, because you don't know how to take care of the shell you're in. You've asked the Man in the Sky to make you somebody's guardian angel, because you're better at taking care of strangers than you are at taking care of yourself. That was until you realized all angels had penises, not vaginas, so Christianity must be built on some sexist shit that would never let you into Heaven, anyway. Ironically, men and their penises are what you make your own worth revolve around. 

When you go out in public, which you seldom do, you try to pretend that people can't see you. No one can see everything  _wrong_  with you if they can't see  _you_. There are many ways to make sure people overlook the cystic acne on your personality. One way is acting like a bitch with no feelings, a frosty put-on that tells people to stay away just by walking through the store with a storm cloud over your head. No one would ever guess that you were actually crying inside.

Another way is to shrink yourself to make sure that you blend in with the crowd of other people no one would want to look at, which is hard to do since you already stick out like a sore thumb. The part of you that tries to be invisible fights with the part of you that wants to be seen. Oftentimes, older men's eyes will stalk you in Albertsons, and you'll smile shyly at their eyes before hiding behind your hair. That little bit of acknowledgement is always enough to make your chest warm. Other times, older men will approach you in Ralphs, but you're too shy to talk to them like a normal person would, so you walk away before they can corner you between Captain Crunch and Toucan Sam.

You walk away because it's always older men who see your vulnerability. You walk away because you're scared of letting in the wrong person. You walk away because you're not mentally strong enough to choose the right one. You are so afraid of looking into a man's eyes and watching them unravel what they'll find behind your shy glance that you don't look into any man's eyes at all.

But you liked it when your neighbor looked at you on Sunday night, when you were coming home from the park at one in the morning, and he was too flustered to stare at your face because you were crying. Yet he saw a glimpse of who you are, and wasn't disgusted. You were crying because you were tired of acting like you wanted to be invisible. You were sobbing because you were tired of being untouchable. Behind the tears, you noticed how tall he was, how lonely he looked, and how much his hands resembled your dad's.

You noticed how sad his house looked from your bedroom as you walked inside your cell, how miserable he sounded as he cried on the balcony. You peeled off your sweater, letting your stretch-marked boobies spill out, and then dried your eyes in your mirror. You acted like you couldn't see him, but you could feel him seeing  _you_. You stretched out across your bed with your nipples pointing at the ceiling and sat your wrists on your eyes like you were ready to conk out.

"Fuck," he sighed. The word throbbed with amazement.

A warm feeling leaked between your thighs. You raised your legs in the air and yanked off your wet panties, tossing them onto the mattress. You looked down. You liked feeling him watch you discover this foreign part of yourself as you played with your new you. You liked the idea of him watching you behind a barrier that kept him from going further. Only this much is comfortable.

Over the next couple of days, you start to look for him from your window. Monday mornings are his favorite time to watch you get dressed. You take your time with slipping your bra straps onto your shoulders and shimmying down into your panties before school. You take your time with shimmying out of your panties and slipping your bra straps down your shoulders before bedtime. Then you fall into your bed of isolation on your back, boobs bouncing with the mattress, and pretend to read, ["The Last Unicorn."](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Last_Unicorn)

He always looks at you like he wants to run his fingers through your hair. You want him to do that, too. You want _somebody_  to do that. Men have always liked your hair -- even your dad -- and every time the boys at school tug your curls out of wonder, your scalp tingles the same way your body does when Tim Daily's eyes touch you.

 _"Your hair smells like vanilla and peppermint,"_  the boys would say.

 _"Don't go around any boys with your hair smelling like that,"_  your grandma would warn.

She never liked the idea of boys liking you. If you ever do get a boyfriend, he’ll probably come second to your art, because you'll only want to spend time with him for a good fuck whenever you can’t get that story right. You know, to fuck the frustration out. People that selfish don't make good girlfriends, so you already decided that you can’t be in a relationship. Only being seen from a balcony is negotiable.

 _"You're a pretty girl. That's why I worry about you,"_  your grandma would cry.

What she said was wrong. Men and women, old and young, black and white, always tell you that you look like a model when you hide behind your mom, who's literally Hollywood-pretty, but you never think they mean it. They just feel sorry for you. They're just trying to be nice. Compliments are hard to accept because people are fake where you live, but the compliments  _his_  eyes give are genuine. 

Over the following weeks, you make up a name for him. You call him "Dave." You make up a story about Dave that explores what his life looks like, what his personality would be like, and what he feels like. You make up chapters about his marriage, kids, and parents. You make up what his wife does to make him feel invisible, how his choice in partners stem from an abusive childhood. You give birth to Dave.

Every time Dave watches you, you know he's looking right through you and seeing the loneliness that makes you who you are. He empathizes. That's why he can't stop staring. That's what you tell yourself. That's what you want to believe.

One day, Dave showed you who he was outside of Microsoft Word. Your mom was gone. His wife was gone. Kids were gone. It was you, Dave, your window, and his balcony. 

You were creatively repressed, which often drives you to masturbate in order to quell the frustration. You've never masturbated properly before -- you've always humped your towel like it was the teddy bear you first cummed on when you were three after ____ molested you -- but you wanted to masturbate for him the way hot older girls do in webcams. Somehow directly stroking yourself doesn't feel as good as humping a towel, but you did it for Dave, and you tried to act like you didn't know he was watching. He sank down onto his fold-out chair and slung his arm over the back, legs parted. His hand crawled into his pants and took out something long.

It was ugly and weird looking. It hung like an elephant trunk from his unzipped fly, and you wondered if you weren't straight because you didn't find his genitals attractive. Your opinion changed after Dave started stroking it. The sleeve of skin enwrapping the shaft went up and down, letting the pink thing play peek-a-boo with your eyes. You began fingering yourself to match his rhythm; neither of you came, but the shared moment felt like you were in sync with each other, more so than you've ever been with anyone. 

You start to fantasize about Dave making love to you. You pretend your hands are his hands as you trail them down your thigh and under your butt, dipping your fingers into the Deep South between your legs. You pretend that your warmth is his warmth. You perform this solo in front of his balcony, naked from head to toe. You keep your eyes closed to replace the darkness under your eyelids with his face.

You have known since 6th grade that you badly want to be fucked by someone, but only in your head. That's just as good, right? And better, because you can make it as good as you want it to be. You won't have to face the darker sides of sex. Girls in P.E. say sex is fantastic before you actually have it. Obviously it's better to fantasize.

At the same time, you're sick of people not touching you. It's not that people don't want to; it's that you won't let them. You don't know how to fight the impulse to shut down when people hug you. You automatically think they'll hate how you feel in their arms, that they'll realize you're just not worth their affection. What's with that? 

Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you? Don't you dare start crying right now -- just go back to the story.

You did something incredible on Wednesday night: you walked past Dave. You were coming up his driveway after parking one of your trashcans in front of your house.

Dave was standing on his porch with his cigarette glowing like a firefly in the dark. "Need any help?" His voice was deep and masculine, but empty of lust and familiarity. 

You put on your fake polite voice, the one you have to use to convince people 24.7 that you're normal. "No, I've got it. Thank you, though." _'Will you watch me tonight?'_

Dave looked away and lifted the cigarette to his lips, inhaling his killer, and then turned his back on you to walk back into his nightmare. "You have a good night, then."

"You, too." _'Would you fuck me?'_ The thing is, sometimes when you asked guys this question in your head, you didn't actually want to be fucked. You just wanted to see the answer on their faces. You wanted to know that they wanted you even though you didn't intend on giving yourself to them, because if you did, they would've obviously found out that you weren't desirable.

Remember, you _are_ tired of being unfucked, but your insecurities still stop you from being fucked because you're just that fucked up. You thought Dave didn't answer you with his eyes this time because his wife was in the living room, and he didn't want to be transparent. 

Until he decided to be on your last birthday.

You realized then that Dave was able to break your barriers because he did it without your permission.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can't recall the last time I took advice from anyone.  
>  I'm sure I'll be the death of me."  
> 

 

* * *

[Babylon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g99qysQgo58) [by SZA](LYRICS%20URL) 3:42

[Code by Layouttesst](http://layouttesst.livejournal.com/profile)

* * *

Dear Self,

You spent your last birthday in the park while the neighborhood was sleeping. Your mom didn't seem to understand that you didn't want to celebrate the fucking day you were born by having a fucking party. For shit's sake, you don't even like parties and she knows that, so why is she always acting like her vagina pushed out some happy unicorn? Maybe it's because you smiled at her with your eyes closed when the nurses put you in her arms for the first time "like you knew you had a purpose to fulfill," but you're not that happy child anymore. To you, your birthdays are reminders that you don't have a purpose, confirmations that you wasted another year not killing yourself, because you said on your last birthday and the birthday before that that you would.

No matter how good your year may have been, you always get depressed on your birthday for this very reason. _"Why don't you try to live for a change?"_ your shoulder angel suggests. The problem is that you don't know how to live and honestly believe that if you tried, you'd somehow fuck that up, too. Your mom doesn't understand that because you don't tell her about that. You just act like a brat "who's going through a phase."

(This is not a fucking phase)

You went to the park at three o'clock in the morning because she went out with your step dad _(even though he told you in her face to go kill yourself last year)_. She went out with your step dad because she said she hates being in the house with you, since you're always angry and never want to be around "them." She went out with him to have the good time that she can't be having with your mentally ill ass. You went to the park to feel sorry for yourself. You went to the park to pretend that you were just an earthbound star the sky had dropped by accident and forgotten to pick back up.  

You were asking the breeze to take you away and hang you from Orion's Belt when Dave sat next to you. You didn't feel him at first because you were zoning out, but he just sat there, smoking his cigarette, not looking at you. _Keeping the barrier intact_. You got scared because he's never been that close. The bench was long enough to leave a good gap of space between you two, yet it wasn't a glass wall that could keep him from inching closer. 

Luckily, Dave didn't do the above. What he did do was turn his head and stare at you. And you got scared. Not because if he stared at you for too long he would probably see every pockmark in your acne-prone character that he never saw up close. Not because he'd stop wanting you or shut his blinds when you undressed what you're _okay_ with letting him see naked.

But because his eyes felt funny on you for the first time. They were too intense, too _expectant_. Too aware of the fact that there was no barrier here _. That you weren't in control._  You could feel them in the dark sliding under your shirt like a hairy hand; you could feel them parting your legs and fingering you dry.

You wanted Dad.

You got up after your thighs got too wet for comfort. You didn't even know _why_ you were wet, and that scared you twice as much. Dave let you walk away, but he didn't let you walk home. He didn't let you wake up the next morning to go to school. He didn't let your mom come home to an ain't-shit daughter. He didn't let you return to Microsoft Word and those gilded fantasies you lived in for so long.

He raped you, right there, underneath Orion's Belt, like it was the last fuck in his life. 

...

And you didn't even let yourself scream.

You didn't even fight.

Only the smell of grass, dog shit, cigarettes, blood, cum, and the memory of Dad leaving you was real. 

 ...

...Just tell me why in the fuck did you ever think you were worth fighting for...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _―"...if you didn't even fight for yourself?"_
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'm sorry that this isn't long. Truthfully, I should've added it to the first chapter, but here it is. I abstained from going into detail about the rape and suicide. Thank you for all of your comments, guys. I expected this to get lost in the abyss.

**Author's Note:**

> Some of it is not fictional. I sometimes -- if not always now -- keep original stuff to myself, but not this time. Unedited snippet of something I could want to publish one day, either as it is or part of a book. If you liked this, please let me know. It'll determine what I do with it.


End file.
